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Once again it’s a Slytherin win! How are they doing this? Parseltongue? Well, done Julia. Take five points for the House of Snakes and the knowledge that we’re all as envious as sin.

And a squish for Jae who will be leaving us this week. Take five well-earned participation points for the Lions, my dear.

With indecent haste, I bring you the new prompt.

Prompt 6

RAREPAIRS - with a twist.

Below is a list of characters. I would like you to pair two of them up and write a wondrous drabble using the lyrics from Somewhere in My Heart by Aztec Camera as your inspiration. I have printed the specific lyrics (part of a verse and the chorus) below as a guide.

This is NOT a song fic. Do not use the lyrics in the drabble. They are for inspiration only.

All drabbles need to be sent to me by Thursday 13th October 8pm BST. Also, the poll will be open for longer this week because your barmaid has come over all Jane Austen and will be in Bath for the weekend looking for Captain Wentworth.
Should I find him, I doubt I’ll return.

Seriously, I’m not sure when I’ll be back but the results should be up Sunday evening BST (Julia, this means you should go to bed. Jess this means you shouldn’t stay up.)

Below are the six drabbles. Please read carefully and decide which is your favourite and which is your least favourite. As well as bearing in mind SPaG and characterisation, you should also heed the prompt which was to drabble a rarepair and to use the lyrics from Aztec Camera's song 'Somewhere in My Heart' (see above)

Poll will close a bit later than usual as I will be in Bath with Captain Wentworth.

Title: Flying at NightWords: 484A/N: Takes place during HBP after Katie Bell is cursed.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

She knew his voice before she saw him in the darkness: Michael. She stopped, trying to catch her breath. She’d been flying hard for an hour and her hair was damp with sweat an inch into her hairline.

“It’s dark. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She glanced back at the pitch. He was probably right, but she’d needed to get out of the castle. She’d needed to fly, to work up a sweat. “I’m okay.”

He came closer, lowering his voice. “That’s not very convincing.”

She couldn't seem to get her mind off her injured teammate, though Michael's nearness made it hard to think properly about anything at all. They'd kissed twice: once in Hogsmeade on a proper date (very sweet), then again last week in the corridor. They’d been saying goodnight, and then, suddenly, they were kissing—really kissing. Demelza had never felt more alive, never been more aware of the blood surging through her body like electricity. They’d stumbled behind a tapestry, pressing together, clutching at hair and robes as their kisses became more and more desperate.

“Demelza,” he said, bringing her back to the present.

"I'm sorry. I’m still not sure, Michael.”

“You are,” he said earnestly, closing the space between them entirely. “You are, Demelza. Is this because of your friends?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “I have a mind of my own.”

He screwed up his face in what looked like irritation. “I can imagine what they’re saying.”

“Well. They’re saying you go from one Quidditch player to the next… that I’ll be nothing more than a name on your list.” She watched his face fall. “They say you’re immature… you know… why Ginny ended it.”

He rested his forearms on her shoulders and hung his head until it brushed her hair. “Yeah, I was immature. I overreacted.” He pushed some hair behind her ear. “But Ginny was looking for a reason. She liked Harry. I knew, but I thought I could change her mind.” He shrugged. “And Cho... Cho was a mistake, a rebound.”

She knew he was being as honest as he could. “Michael.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks. This is about us.”

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

Her throat ached. “Did you hear about Katie?” She hated the vulnerability in her voice, the smallness of it.

“Yeah,” he said soberly.

She’d wanted to tell him, to talk to him about her friend, to have him say something back. “I’m scared.”

He kissed her then, and she closed her eyes… one, two, three little kisses. “We can’t stop what’s coming, but we can be together in the middle of it, Demelza. That’s all I want.”

And just like that, she knew.

She dropped her head to his chest and hugged him tightly, feeling the comfort of his arms coming around her. “Me, too.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, but she said it again anyway: “Me, too.”

Title: Don’t ForgetRating/Warning: 3rd/5th Years — Mild Profanity, Sexual Situations, SlashA/N: I assure you, this ship wouldn’t have sailed into my brain at any other point than the darkest hours before the Brawl deadline.

* * *

As the door to the Ministry’s overnight lockup slammed closed, the accompanying clatter was ignored as the visitor locked eyes with the current occupant.

“Malfoy,” said the latter.

“Corner,” replied the former, lips drawn into a taut line.

“It’s been a while.”

“Indeed.”

Silence fell as their respective thoughts drifted to the same place.

They preferred this inn’s dirty windows. One hated the light of dawn and the solitude it brought, and the other couldn’t be seen there. In that lingering pall before daybreak, they could pretend that their tangled limbs were still enveloped by darkness. Under that mantle of night, neither had a name, face, creed, or blood status; their identities were painted by sighs and glorious peals of mutual fulfilment.

Perhaps that was the hated thing about clean windows; they were forced to remember who they were.

“I’ve posted your bail.”

Michael chortled humourlessly. “Piss off. You clearly said you were done with me. What makes you think I want you now?”

“Because you don’t forget.” The familiar words frothed between them.

Michael watched the morning’s sullied glow set Draco’s white-gold hair alight. Draco typically left long before sun-up, but Michael didn’t like this change. He watched his previous night’s lover stare at the ceiling, his expression cast in stone.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Draco croaked. “I’m getting married in a week, and people will talk.”

“Ha!” Michael cried derisively. Propping himself up on his elbow, he added, “I still don’t see how that changes anything. To hell with everyone else.”

Draco looked about in distaste. “Hard to do that when you’re in and out of this hole for some damned thing or another. What is it this time? Theft? Breaking and entering?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“Case in point.”

Michael flung himself off the bunk. “Why now? Why do you suddenly give a damn about me after all this time?”

Blinking in the face of Michael’s anger, Draco stated, “Astoria’s said she doesn’t give a damn who I sleep with as long as I don’t father any illegitimate children. We have our heir and no longer require each other’s services.”

“You know it’s not that easy,” Draco replied agitatedly. “I have to take every scrap of goodwill I can get. The Dark Lord ruined everything. I need a good match to ensure my family sees another generation.” Freeing himself from twisted sheets, he said with finality, “You’re better off forgetting me anyway. If my father knew, he’d likely have you killed in your sleep.”

Michael turned away and burrowed under the covers, muttering to himself but not quite quietly enough. “But I don’t forget the people I love.”

“And I can’t forget.”

Michael gaped at Draco as if the words hadn’t hit home. “What?”

“To hell with everyone else.” Brusquely, Draco yanked Michael toward him, smashing his own lips to the ones that had haunted every dawn since their last spent together.

Title: The One Who UnderstandsRating/Warning: 1st-2nd/noneA/N The drabble doesn't necessarily disregard Hannah's relationship with Neville, as there is nothing to say she wasn't with someone else first, but obviously, it could change things for them, so to that extent it disregards parts of canon that JKR has told us through interview.

She finds him in the Great Hall. She doesn’t realise until she sees him quite how worried she’s been.

He looks up and catches her eye. His face breaks into a weak smile, but he quickly corrects himself as if unsure whether smiling is allowed – whether they’re supposed to be happy.

“Walk?” he mouths to her and she nods in reply. He mutters something to Terry and then crosses the hall to join her.

She desperately wants to grab hold of his hand as they wander through the grounds but she knows she shouldn’t. They are too close to ruin things like that.

He had been the only one to understand. He accepted why she hadn’t wanted to come back, why she hadn’t, at first, wanted to fight. The others didn’t. Ginny had bluntly told her that if her mother had been killed, she would have done everything possible to take revenge on those responsible.

But all Hannah wanted was to survive. And Michael didn’t think that strange or wrong. He never tried to make her fight. He would sit with her in the Room of Requirement, just talking, and never making her feel guilty or wrong for what she was doing, for holding back.

She remembers seeing him after his first Carrow detention, a deep cut running down his face, his eye bruised black.

“It’s fine,” he had said, “because the first years got away.”

He had inspired her. He made her want to fight. She didn’t want revenge. She wanted to help – to be the one saving a first year from the darkness that had fallen over the school. Most of all, she wanted to be with him.

He had Cho, though, and she couldn’t interfere with that. Even when they had broken up, over the Christmas holidays, he hadn’t seemed interested in having anyone else.

“The one thing my girlfriends have in common,” he had remarked bitterly, “is that they all like Harry Potter more than me.”

I don’t, she had wanted to reply, but instead she had nodded and reassured him that one day he would find someone who liked him for himself.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, snapping her back to the present.

“I suppose I should come back here, to finish the year I missed.”

“I can’t imagine coming back. How can we ever be normal here again?”

Once again, he has vocalised her own thoughts perfectly.

“I just want,” she starts, but cannot finish. She feels tears welling up. “I’m sorry,” she chokes, trying to hold her voice steady.

He takes her hand and squeezes it. “Don’t be. You’re special, Hannah, never forget that. And whatever happens next, we’ll get through it.”

She believes him. Because he is Michael, the person who understands, the person who has always been there. The person she loves.

She can’t ignore it anymore. Still clinging to his hand, she leans in, and she kisses him.

Somewhere in her heart she knows there is a piece that will never quite fit, as though something is missing from the valves and sinewy flesh. Or perhaps, after her heart broke, Demelza never managed to put everything back in the right place.

---

They used to sit behind the Quidditch pitch, holding hands in the grass and complaining about History of Magic. Now, they crouch behind the tapestry of Wendelin the Weird, hands clasped tight, and say nothing at all.

There are only soft vowels whispered on skin and then, when it seems like they’ll never be able to move, a short, sharp gasp as one of them pulls away.

It’s usually Astoria. Demelza tries not to think about it much because then she has to worry about one more thing and there’s not enough time or space to just think. Not when they’re in the middle of a bloody war.

---

It’s summer and they are watching Scorpius play on the lawn of Malfoy Manor. Demelza turns to her friend and smiles. Astoria frowns back, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Don’t,” says Astoria.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies.

---

When they met on the Hogwarts Express, she never expected to make her first friend so soon, let alone lose her before dinner was served. It’s two years until they speak again and it’s surprising how easy it is to rekindle that familiar warmth and laughter.

“Professor Binns is such a bore.”

“Oh! Isn’t he just?"

---

She sips on her lemonade, fingers wrapped around the glass as if they’ll never move again. It reminds her of tapestries and sneaking around silent corridors and the Carrows.

“Don’t ruin a perfectly good afternoon, Demelza.”

Astoria was always the one to pull away first, she thinks. She looks across the table and removes her hand, half-reaching, palm facing up towards the summer sun. The memory snaps into place, just below her ribs, and she can’t hold it in any longer.

“You didn’t have to choose Draco.”

The silence says everything.

---

They like to play a game. It’s all displaced lust and stories spun from lies to pass the time when they could be telling the truth instead.

“I snogged Liam behind the greenhouses.”

“The Ravenclaw?”

“Yeah.”

They lay their cloaks down upon the grass, green and red lapels, side by side, as if they are exactly the same. Demelza isn’t quite sure who kisses whom first.

After, Astoria walks back to the castle without a word.

---

Scorpius loses interest with his toy broom as the afternoon light weaves itself into dusk. Astoria takes him inside and returns with something stronger than lemonade.

The tears begin to fall after only two glasses and soon their hands are clasped together across the table. Demelza wonders if Astoria still has her Slytherin cloak.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Astoria.

“Come on,” replies Demelza. She pulls her friend onto the lawn, onto the grass, and it’s as if nothing has changed.

The bangs on the door jolt me out of the peaceful place I had just reached in my mind. We were sitting in silence – something I haven’t done in so long. For a while, there was no shouting, no fighting, no argument, just silence and peace.

I’m about to get up when Astoria puts her hand on my shoulder and rises instead of me.

As Astoria leaves the room, the banging on the door continues, and I’m sure that she knows as well as me that, although we’re in her flat, the person outside is here for me. The moment Astoria opens the door, I can hear the shouts. Even here, huddled on a sofa under a blanket where I can’t see him, I feel so threatened. Everything seems to be closing in on me. I pull my knees up to my body and hug my legs, but I can’t keep the lump in my throat from rising.

“Where is she?” he yells.

“She doesn’t want to see you, Michael.” I admire the calm that Astoria keeps.

“So she is here, I knew it! Let me in!”

“No!” Astoria replies firmly. “And stop pushing me!”

There’s a short pause before he speaks again. “I have every right to see my fiancée.”

“Well, this is my flat, and I have every right to keep you out of it.”

I worry about Astoria. A large part of me wants to get up and go to the door, to tell him myself that he has to move on, and to save Astoria. But I know myself well enough to realise that I want to see him, too. I can’t, though. It won’t end like that this time.

“Look,” he says after a pause, and he isn’t yelling now. “I just want to see her. I need to apologise, and I need her to come back home with me.”

“You can’t solve this with apologies anymore. And you certainly can’t see her tonight.”

At that moment, I can picture him, looking forlorn, and I really want to hold him, and go back to how things were.

“You should go now,” Astoria says.

When she returns, I pretend to be asleep. There’s nothing I want to discuss, and I don’t want her to look at my tears and pity me tonight. She pulls the blanket over me, and gently pushes a strand of hair out of my face. I know that she’s looking at the bruise, but I do my best to ignore it. Then, suddenly, her hair tickles my face, and I feel her lips on my cheek.

“Good night, Demelza,” she whispers, and goes to her bedroom.

When I hear the door close behind her, I take off my engagement ring. I’ll send it back to Michael in the morning. I should have had the strength to do this months ago, but something has finally changed tonight.

Title: The Only ThingRating/Warning: 1st/2nd Yrs - noneA/N: I have no time for drabbles anymore...

In the small hours of the morning, Demelza finished wiping off the last glass in the Leaky Cauldron and put it away in a cupboard. Only one man was left at the bar, his head bowed over the drink left in front of him. In the half-light provided by the remaining candles, she could barely see his eyes, closed in exhaustion or grief, or most likely a combination of both. Her own heart felt unnaturally swollen as she approached him. She was tired, yes, and she was as sad as anyone else. But there was so much more she was feeling – mostly involving a fiery and passionate love for the man sitting in front of her.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure the feeling was mutual. She thought there was a certain understanding between them, that maybe they were companions of sorts. But it never seemed to be a good time to bring the subject up. The country was in a state of mourning, which struck her as odd. The war was over. Where was the promised happiness, the eternal celebration? It seemed to be eluding many, like the man that she was now standing next to.

Demelza laid a hand on his arm and Lee opened his eyes, giving her a smile that looked immeasurably sad to her.

“Time to go,” she said. He nodded, but did not move. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. They stayed like that for a long time, him sitting, her standing. His hand moved into her hair.

“I love you,” he said. Demelza drew back.

“You do?” she asked him, her eyes wide.

“Sure I do,” he said, a bemused expression on his face. “I mean…” He trailed off. “You knew that, right?” he asked, moving his arms around her.

“I don’t know,” Demelza said.

“Well, I do,” he said. “You’re the only thing keeping me going, Demelza. The only thing. Do you think I would have the will to get up and go to work in the morning without you? That I would be able to deal with all of… this?” Lee waved his hand in the air vaguely, but somehow Demelza understood.

It’s another Slytherin victory! Well done, Julia. Take 5 more pointsssss and basssssk in the glory.

Sadly, Toni is leaving us this week. You’ve been a great brawler and fully deserve your participation points for Gryffindor.

Aaaaaand

WEEK 7 (an old favourite)

POST SECRET

Choose one of these three secrets from PostSecret.com and write a drabble about it. There are no restrictions or catches, but please concentrate on the secret rather than the image (although you may incorporate the image, if you wish)

Title: Tea Behind BarsRating/warning: 3-5thSecret used: I do not feel as free as they tell me I am.A/N:

Sunlight christened the morning through the windows of the Great Hall as I watched the Dark Lord fall. His body hit the floor with acute, unbelievable finality, and I did not feel what I was supposed to feel. As Potter was pulled into the roaring celebration, I felt the invisible chains that had grown so tight around me go slack. Just like that, I could breathe.

My parents sat on either side of me. I didn’t look at them, but I knew Father was staring straight ahead with his eyes full of nothing. Mother’s arm was around me; I felt the jagged rock of ancient walls scrape my back as she pulled me closer. She was shaking with tears I couldn’t understand. Did she cry for the Dark Lord? Or was she relieved, like me? I didn’t ask.

We never ask each other.

When we got home, Father disappeared straightaway and Mother went to make tea. Then she went round the house, opening the drapes on every window, letting in an obscene amount of light. I knew what she was trying to do, but it was useless: it would take more than sunshine to drown out anything that had happened here. Father eventually returned clean-shaven and we sat down in the Drawing Room. What a curious sight we must be: tea and a shave before being hauled off to Azkaban? I didn’t even know Mother could make tea.

They came that night—Kingsley and a band of Aurors, looking like they were expecting a fight. Fools. If we’d wanted to run, we wouldn’t have been hanging round the Great Hall for hours after it was over, would we?

Two weeks have passed since that day.

We are free now… so they have told us.

There may not be bars on the windows, but I have learned one thing: there are all kinds of cages. When I go out, I am a monkey in the zoo. People stare and narrow their eyes, and I know their thoughts: I belong in Azkaban. I want to stare back at them, but I rarely manage it. I know my crimes better than they do, after all.

When I’m at the Manor, I wander round the house thinking of the fire in the Room of Requirement, the night on the Astronomy Tower, and my own pervasive weakness… not brave enough to do the Dark Lord’s bidding and not brave enough to stand against him.

And worst of all, I think of Potter and how I owe him my life three times over.

Hermione enters the house alone and it’s beautiful and ugly at the same time. There is a cold familiarity she cannot ignore and it hurts so much that her breath hitches and suddenly she’s choking back tears that threaten to bloom across her cheeks. It’s been three days since she last cried because it’s been three days since she has been alone.

Three days since she watched Ron crouch over Fred’s body in the Great Hall, since every burden seemed to lift for the first time in seven years and new, raw burdens took their place. It’s a balance between heavy and light, she thinks.

Once upon a time, Hermione read that grief is something intangible and moving. She thinks of Harry’s silence and Ron’s broken smile. She thinks of yesterday and how she had to wash her hands five times before pretending to eat dinner.

Hypothesis correct. It surprises her when that thought does not feel comforting. There is something which stops her and that familiar warmth of knowing something.

It’s not like she’s ungrateful, or places wish upon wish for things to be different because that is impossible and Hermione doesn’t like to dwell on impossible things. Those things are few and far between and not nearly as interesting as what can be changed, moulded, or fixed. She’s not ungrateful but she’s not happy, either. There is a bubbling, seething darkness that writhes beneath her ribs.

Because now, when Hermione looks at Harry, she finds it difficult to see the eleven year-old boy from the Hogwarts Express with cellotaped glasses and grey, raggy clothes three times his size. She looks at Ron and sees a stolen innocence that will never be replaced. She looks at George and sees half a life, Molly and Arthur with their displaced hearts, beating for something that will not return.

Life isn’t fair. She’s spent her adolescence fighting against something that ultimately will never change because as one injustice dies, another is born from the ashes. It’s a fact of life. Something that even books can’t teach her. Tangible. Unmoving. It’s a worthy cause but she has no fight left for the moment and it makes her angry.

She is so damn angry and there is no one around to tell.

She screams.

It is a harsh, inhuman sound that rips itself from her chest as if it’s not a part of her. She screams, holding onto it until her throat is dry and her ears are ringing. Then she lets go, breathing once, twice, three times, before closing her eyes. Her hands fall to her thighs to brush the imaginary dust from her skirt.

There. Done.

She turns around and walks from the room and out into the garden without a glance back. There will be time to return when she has found her parents and brought them safely home. For the moment she has what she wanted, what she needed.

And now Hermione has one less burden to carry.

Title: FreedomRating/warning: 1st-2nd/noneSecret used: "I do not feel as free as they tell me I am"

No one had expected Ron to be the one who fell apart. With Harry, everyone was surprised enough that he was still alive, let alone the fact that he hadn’t had a nervous breakdown. Hermione was good at coping but the torture she had suffered at Malfoy Manor would have been enough to push anyone over the edge. What excuse did Ron have? What had happened to him? He had been the one to run away – the one who couldn’t quite cut it. Yes, he had lost a brother, but so had George, and so had the others. His parents had lost their son, and yet somehow it was Ron who couldn’t cope with it all.

He lay awake at night, listening to the familiar, regular rhythm of Harry’s breathing, hearing the occasional shout or cry that echoed through the house when someone was having a bad dream, and wishing he could sleep. But from the moment the lights went out, all he could do was remember, and his memories tortured him. Over and over he replayed the weeks he had spent at Shell Cottage, when he had finally been free of the responsibility of the Horcrux and everything that came with it. The time when he had abandoned his friends just as they needed him most.

They were supposed to be free now – they could do anything they wanted, go anywhere they felt like, live their lives in the ways they had always dreamt. But Ron didn’t know what he wanted, other than to go back and change everything.

Instead of making decisions, he went to work in George’s shop. It was safe there. George wasn’t interested in heart-to-hearts, or deep and meaningful conversations about the past. He just concentrated on moving from one day to the next, and Ron could deal with that.

He should have known he couldn’t get away with avoiding the problems for too long. Hermione started meeting him from work. They would go for a drink, and she did her best to get him to talk. But how he could he talk about how badly he had let her down, and how he was so ashamed that he couldn’t even look her in the eye anymore? She said she had forgiven him, but how could she have done, after seeing what a coward he was.

So he did what he knew how to do best. He ran away. In the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, Ron packed up his things and left, breaking the most important promise he had ever made. He knew he was letting them down again, but he couldn’t cope with the guilt, the shame, the knowledge of the pain he had caused. It would be better for them if he wasn’t there. Hermione deserved more, but she wouldn’t realise it until he had gone. Harry was trying to enjoy life – he didn’t need to be worrying about Ron.

It was time to be free.

Title: PhlegmRating/warning: 1st/2nd none Secret used: "I do not feel as free as they tell me I am."A/N: This takes place before Ginny's fifth year (i.e. beginning of HBP)

When Ginny sat down in front of the fireplace in the deserted living room with her cup of tea, Charlie’s face was already sitting in the embers.

“So how are you getting along with Bill’s fiancée?” he asked when she had settled in.

Ginny pulled a face. “Don’t call her that. You make her sound like she’s part of the family.”

In the fireplace, Charlie raised his eyebrows. “But she is – or at least she’s going to be.” There was a pause as Ginny crossed her arms. “What do you call her, then?”

“Phlegm!” Instantly, her face lit up.

Charlie seemed for a moment to be torn between amusement and concern.

“You know that they are getting married, right? You’ll have to get used to her eventually.”

“Psh. I don’t want to get used to her. Tonks’d be much better for Bill anyway.”

“Just because you like her better doesn’t mean he would, or that she’d even be happy with him.”

“I just don’t get what he sees in Phlegm!” Ginny put her cup down rather violently. “It’s like she used a bubblehead charm wrong, and it’s filling up the void–”

“Come on, she’s not that bad.”

“You haven’t been around her all this time. Do you realise how annoying it is to have her here while they’re planning the wedding?”

“But you wouldn’t mind having Tonks around if she was planning her wedding?”

“No! Tonks is fun, we’d have a blast!”

“Would you though? Imagine Tonks and Bill sticking their heads together and making googly eyes. That’s not much better, is it?”

“What, of Phlegm? Just because she’s tall and blonde, I have to be jealous of her?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. We all know that Bill’s your favourite brother. Don’t pull that face; it’s true. You only started having these Floo-calls with me when he moved back to England. And I’m fine with that, really. But I worry about you. Mum and Fred and George always say how free you are, speaking your mind to a point of being rude.” He winked, but quickly continued. “But I don’t think you are. And somewhere, you probably think that, too. You don’t rely on a lot of people, but those that you do rely on, you really cling to. If you don’t realise that, no one is ever going to be good enough for Bill, and you will lose him eventually.”

As Harry ascended the stairs toward his old dormitory, the rest of the wizarding world celebrated their liberation from oppression whilst enjoying a new freedom of his own: from his past, from Prophecy, from Voldemort. The covers on his long-unoccupied bed beckoned invitingly as Harry finally realised how long it had been since he’d slept with a clear head and without the burden of duty. It gave him a sense of serenity as he pulled back the duvet and, still fully-clothed, wrapped himself in that blanket of ease.

Sleep came quickly as the adrenalin from the battle subsided, and he looked forward to dreams unpoisoned by the Horcrux that had resided within him for nearly his whole life.

He awoke in a room bathed in the faint glow of firelight and, oddly, wearing his Quidditch kit. Harry examined his surroundings before finally placing the location: the parlour of the old Riddle House; the realisation made him shudder. Whatever he did, he would make sure he didn’t go outside.

The back of his right hand burned beneath the glove. Pulling it off, Harry examined the painful patch of skin; the old scar from Umbridge’s quill was bleeding. ‘I must not tell lies’ mocked him in angry, red letters. Aghast, Harry swiped at the wound with his sleeve and smeared away the blood, but as soon as he had, it began to flow again. He stared as it oozed relentlessly and dripped onto the floor. With a start, he yanked his glove back on, ignoring the sensation of dampness within it.

“Harry . . .”

That achingly familiar voice called out from the darkened hallway. He followed it, entranced, the need to see her smouldering inside him. The meagre light followed him even as he left the room, but he appreciated it when it caught the sheen of ruby locks and smooth, pale skin. A warm tingle emanated from his chest, growing in intensity as he approached

“Harry.”

His name sent a pleasant chill through him. “Ginny,” he breathed as they locked gazes. She gave him a secret smile as her hands slid the robes from his shoulder and her lips claimed his. He drank in her flavour like a starved man and lived on that sustenance as her mouth journeyed downward, eventually brushing that sizzle over his heart. Its searing became almost unbearable.

Harry looked down, only to see the locket’s shape branded into his skin, angered by her ministrations. He looked up, stricken, but Ginny merely kissed him fiercely. The burning, however, just escalated to unbearable heights.

Unable to breathe, he ripped himself away from her. The eyes that met his were no longer soft brown, but a deep, seething red . . .

Harry’s eyes snapped open as his breath came back in heaving gasps. He tried to dispel the image from his mind, but those eyes followed him even in consciousness. It was then that he fully knew that freedom would be much farther in the future for him, and he mourned that ignorance.

So, breaking the run of Slytherin wins is the Puff supremo, Lori, who takes a wonderful 5 points for Hufflepuff (the irony here being that she wrote about Draco – ha ha ha).

Very sadly leaving us this week is former champion and wonderful Gryff, Kara, who takes participation points for her house and a big squish from me.

So ... I have to move on to the next prompt. Which is

Wandless in West Wittering

As there are four of you left, I’d like you to chose one of the four characters below and write a drabble about them stranded in Muggle Britain - wandless. How will they cope without magic? Oh, and please do not start with any of that ‘hand witch’ stuff, that is not allowed. I don’t think any of the characters I’ve chosen is wonderful enough for that. Capiche?

You can write any situation, but they must meet a Muggle. It can be an OC Muggle or a canon Muggle.
Characters that may be used.

Dean Thomas
Susan Bones
Padma Patil
Blaise Zabini

By the way, this doesn’t have to be set in West Wittering (which is a nice beach in England where I was unfortunate enough to lose my son for a good forty-five minutes). I just liked the alliteration.

The world seemed to sway as Dean stumbled along the dark country lane. He couldn’t quite remember the reason why he was there and not back at Harry’s wedding reception, but he knew it was important. If he didn’t get to where he needed to go then the world would certainly end. Kaput!

Dean giggled. Kaput was such an odd word.

He lurched forward, glimpsing village lights ahead through the shadowy trees. His arms flailed about as he ran, bumping into shrubbery, tree trunks, and once, something warm and squishy that he briefly considered hugging.

The pub!

Now Dean remembered exactly where he was going. Through the haze of Firewhiskey, he scrabbled around in his robes until his hands closed around a small vial. He gulped the potion down. The fuzzy ringing in his head disappeared immediately. He sighed happily and began to walk towards the pub. No way would he miss the World Cup final, not even for Harry and Ginny’s wedding reception. Feeling around in his pockets, he checked that he had enough Muggle money.

But as Dean reached the open pub door, he paused.

My wand. Where the hell is my wand?

Something hot and sour rose in his throat.

“Are you alright, mate?” asked a gruff voice. He turned to see a large, blond man standing behind him. “I’m Dudley, Harry’s cousin. We met at the wedding.”

Dean nodded, glancing across the road to the country lane he’d come from. Pitch black. There was no way he could manage to find his wand without the help of Lumos.

“You look like you need to sit down.”

“N-n-no,” stuttered Dean. “I…”

He felt himself being pushed towards the bar and sat down upon one of the sticky stools. Dean swore. It was too dark to walk back to The Burrow. He’d have to wait until morning and who knew what would’ve happened to his wand by then—a car, animal, anything.

“Easy on, it’s only five minutes in,” said Dudley beside him, mistaking Dean’s discomfort for missing the football. “I left the reception early, too,” he continued. “Couldn’t miss the final.”

Dean glared at Dudley who didn’t seem to notice. Through the sounds and smells of the pub, which usually felt so comforting, he couldn’t fight down the sense of rising panic at being without magic.

“When I saw you leaving, I figured I could slip away, too. You were pretty wasted! You even stumbled into me at one point but I don’t think you could see me properly…”

Dean closed his eyes, fighting the urge to scream.

“You dropped this, by the way.”

Dudley pulled something out of his trouser pocket, holding it out tentatively as if it were about to explode.

“My wand,” whispered Dean, his fingers shaking as he took it from Dudley’s outstretched hand. “Thanks!”

Dudley shrugged and turned back to his pint, seemingly glad to get rid of it.

“So, are we going to watch this match or not?”

Title: Meeting IanRating/warning: 3-5th
A/N:

Susan stared soberly into the murky water: her wand would be halfway to the bottom by now. She stifled the urge to go after it, knowing it was unwise to draw attention to herself in a Muggle park.

She cursed her own stupidity. She hadn’t been concentrating, and had overshot her destination. Even experienced witches like herself had to employ proper deliberation and determination to Apparate successfully. She’d found the park, but landed so hard that her wand had popped out and gone straight into the water.

Susan swore under her breath. She was meeting Hannah for lunch, so she’d have to find a way back without magic.

She hurried to her feet as a twig snapped behind her.

“Sorry,” said a young man. “Are you lost?” He grinned then, lighting up his whole face.

My, but he has a nice face, Susan mused.

“Bit strange… you seemed to appear out of nowhere.”

Susan laughed too loudly, fighting nerves. “This is Hyde Park?”

“Yeah. Not lost, then?”

“Well… I need to get to Charing Cross Road.” She frowned as she said it. Lunch with Hannah sounded quite dismal compared to staying with this lovely man.

He looked past her, to the left and back again. “Take the train. You’ll only have to change lines once.”

She tried to concentrate on his words, but the soft-looking fringe that fell over his forehead was too distracting. She desperately wanted to touch it. “I haven’t got any money on me,” she lied. She did have some for lunch, but no Muggle money. “I'll walk if you'll point me in the right direction.”

Ian. She said it several times in her head. Of course you are Ian, she thought. What a perfect name. Her cheeks reddened. “Susan. Susan Bones.”

“Well, Susan Bones… The train’s on me. I don’t often get to rescue pretty girls in the park.”

Warnings about strangers tumbled round in her head, but somehow she knew Ian was perfectly safe.

He talked as they rode—their thighs touching in the shared seat. Conversation came easily, and by the time they switched lines at Picadilly Circus, Susan was talking about her work as a healer (remembering to use the word doctor). Her eyes kept straying to his fringe. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, just to be safe.

Too soon, they stood in front of the Leaky Cauldron, though Susan knew Ian couldn’t see it.

“Thanks again. I'll repay you.”

He shook his head, grinning adorably. “My pleasure, Susan Bones.”

Reluctantly, she turned to leave.

“I’m in the park a lot,” he said suddenly, looking sheepish. “It’d be nice to see you again.”

Susan smiled wide, nodding her agreement.

Ten minutes later, she told Hannah everything.

“How’d you make it back so quickly without magic?”

Susan looked wistful. “Dunno. Maybe there’s more than one kind of magic.”

Title: Better than MagicRating/Warning: 1st-2nd Years/None

Dean stormed out of the house, slamming the door.

“Some holiday this is turning out to be,” he muttered to himself as his feet pounded the pavement. Not for the first time, he wished he could Apparate already. At least he had turned seventeen back in October.

Suddenly he ground to a halt, and slammed his palm to his forehead. “My wand,” he groaned, thinking of it sitting in his bedside drawer.

He was stuck. He shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a fistful of money. There was a fiver, crumpled with an old receipt, and a handful of change- a mix of Muggle and magical. It was hardly enough for a sandwich and definitely wouldn't get him into the cinema where he could at least kill a few hours.

He should go back – say sorry. It had been such a stupid fight. He knew it wasn't a good idea to mention his 'real' dad, but he was desperate to know.

Ever since he had found out about Hogwarts, he had wondered about his dad. He hoped that maybe he had actually been a wizard and not the waste of space his mum always claimed. Maybe there was more to his father than Dean knew.

He shook his head forcefully. No, the man was a jerk and wasn't even worth thinking about. Even if he had been a wizard, it didn't make him any better for walking out on them.

Just then, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Dean? Dean Thomas, is that you?”

Immediately wary, he whipped his head around to face the direction of the voice. He relaxed when he recognised a girl he had been at Primary school with.

“Becca! How're you?”

“Good thanks. Wow, it's been ages. I heard you'd gone off to some fancy school in Scotland. You still there?”

“Oh yeah, I'm in year...” He desperately tried to remember the Muggle equivalent of sixth year at Hogwarts but then remembered the Scots did everything differently anyway. “Well, probably the same year as you.”

“I'm at college now,” she said brightly, “doing a beautician course.”

“Cool – that must be interesting.”

“Yeah. I just didn't fancy A Levels. Too much work, you know?”

Dean didn't know but he nodded anyway. It struck him how little he knew about the Muggle friends he had been at school with. Ever since he'd been at Hogwarts he'd been so wrapped up in magic that he'd stopped paying attention to his 'old life'.

He didn't even know what his step-siblings did at school. Suddenly, he really wanted to see his family – to talk to them and apologise for being such an idiot.

“Hey, Becca, I'd love to catch up some time, but I've got to go. Sorry!”

Without waiting for answer, he turned and started sprinting back down the round. Magic was brilliant, but some things would always be more important.

Title: Memory LaneRating/warning: 1st/2nd Years – Mentions of character deathA/N: Stuff of note: Padma married Michael Corner. All other canon-ness applies to other characters.

* * *

The only sound in the cemetery came from a Muggle lawnmower as Padma sat beside the one grave she had come to visit.

“Oh, Parvati,” Padma sighed to the cold stone. “So much has happened. Harry and Ginny got married last month. She’s already expecting. It makes me think about, you know, having some of my own. I think Michael’s almost ready, but I don’t know…” Padma then recounted significant events of their friends’ lives. This was how her visits always went, and like usual, she reached into her pocket to conjure a wreath of tiger lilies — Parvati’s favourite.

Her wand was gone. Frantically, Padma checked the grass around her, but to no avail. Before she could panic, though, something exploded mere metres away. Jerking her head toward the sound, she saw the Muggle groundskeeper circling his now-smouldering mower. She watched him inspect the damage and extract something from the cutting blades.

Padma’s insides curdled, however, when she saw it: the shredded carcass of her wand. Almost mechanically, she wandered over to snatch it from his hand, uncaring that it was mere detritus to him. This wand, which had battled Death Eaters and saved her life countless times, was reduced to splinters and a rather mangled unicorn hair core.

“I…” she started before her voice broke. Padma felt destitute without her faithful companion, which she had treasured like a loved one. Not to mention it was her means of transportation.

“That twig just destroyed a five-hundred pound piece of equipment,” said the groundskeeper with a sigh. “Never saw a stick do that before.”

She harrumphed. “You’d be surprised.”

Ignoring her cryptic response, he said “Anyway, sorry to have bothered you.”

Suddenly, the idea of being alone sickened Padma. She cried, “Wait!” Quickly, she added, “I need a lift into town.”

He raised his brow but didn’t reply, instead indicating a lorry filled with gardening implements. Padma climbed in the passenger side and sat quietly as they motored into the village. They stopped at a small house. “Did you need to call someone?” he asked. “You can use my phone if you’d like.”

“I see. Do you, er, want to get some coffee, then? It’s about my lunchtime anyway.” He suddenly looked abashed by his bold invite.

Touched by his outreach, Padma said, “I’d love to. My husband will come get me in the afternoon.”

Nearly an hour later, Garry, as she now knew him, both let Padma off at the cemetery and collected his broken mower. Once more, she found herself next to Parvati, but this time taking the wand from her pocket and setting it at the base of the stone. “Rest in peace,” she whispered before heading back to the gates.

Only a few minutes passed before Michael arrived. She would tell him later about her wand, but there were more important things. Smiling, she said, “Let’s have a baby.”

Madam Carmerta - or whatever you wish to call me - would appreciate lots of votes. It's not hard, my lovely barflies, and the brawlers will love you forever!

Another Slytherin win for JULIAAAAAAAA. ]Well done! That is an amazing achievement.

Sadly, another Slytherin leaves us. Hannah takes her five participation points and a stage win back to her house – where she’ll no doubt plot a dire revenge on the other houses. *sigh* Hugs and squishes, Hannah. You played a blinder (and I'm only joking about the revenge ----eeeeep.)

We’re down to the final three, and here’s the deal. The task is in two parts.

First of all, I’m not setting the prompt – you are. Yes, you heard me correctly. You must write two prompts – one for each of your opponents – and send them to me. You may, of course, tailor your prompts as you see fit. Remember, you’re trying to win. However a prompt that is too ridiculous or impossible will result in me setting your victim a different prompt.

Example of an allowable (and a rather nice prompt) prompt:

The Slug Club is not Harry's favourite club, we know that from the Half Blood Prince. But if he'd known that his mother and father were members, would he have been more inclined to go to the parties? Old Sluggy's Christmas party of 1976 is one to remember - but why? The Marauders are in their sixth year. Not all of them are in the Slug Club but at least one other Marauder will be there with James. Other party goers are up to you. Remember club members can take a guest.

Example of an evil (but allowable) prompt:

I challenge you to write a drabble in which Ginny Weasley falls in love with Vincent Crabbe. It must be set in Ginny’s sixth year. Also, it should be canon compliant – apart from the obvious, of course. AND it must be written completely in dialogue, and don’t make it as if someone is telling a story – what I mean is that both Ginny and Crabbe should be talking to each other, in present tense. IC characters are a must.

Example of a ridiculous prompt that shall be disallowed:

Write a drabble where every third word begins with a B. Or anything that ships the Giant Squid with ... anything.

If I think your prompt is too evil, then I’ll ask you to rewrite .

Send your prompts to me by WEDNESDAY 2nd November 8pm GMT. (our clocks in UK have shifted back an hour) .

Once you receive your prompts, you will have just over a week to write TWO drabbles.

Apologies for the lateness of this. A combination of RL frickery, general niceness by the barmaid, and certain sites just NOT CO-OPERATING , have made this a fraught few hours for me.

This week things are a bit different. The brawlers had to set each other prompts, and thus they wrote two each. You get to vote twice. You vote for your TWO favourite drabbles, and your TWO least favourite. I will total up the scores and the brawler with the least votes will be leaving us.

When you vote, please bear in mind the prompt set and how well the brawler coped with it - because knowing these witches as I do, this was blooming hard for all of them. (And it also showed how evil they are - ha ha ha)

There is a comments field. I would like you to use it. I would like you to tell me which prompt you thought was most evil - heh heh. Thank you.

In this drabble, I’d like you to feature a Marauder Era Slytherin (as there are few characters whose houses are specified, you are allowed to make an educated decision as to who fits the bill, but nothing canon contradictory) who was approached about joining both the Death Eater Ranks AND the Order of the Phoenix. By the end of the drabble, the character’s decision must be made clear, whether it is to join the former or latter. However, this character cannot be Severus Snape, Regulus Black, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, or Narcissa Black Malfoy.

She presses her lips to his and all he can think is this is it, this is what he wants. He’s never felt so alive and never so sure of himself.

He’s never felt so wrong.

“Come with me,” she says, her breath hot against his neck, hands trailing down and down and down until he can barely think. “After Hogwarts. You don’t have to go back to him, you don’t have to be your father, Evan.”

He pushes the sick, unwelcome feeling down and kisses her again to shut her up.

“Listen to me, Evan!”

He groans her name into her skin.

Marlene, Marlene, Marlene.

“I’m joining the Order,” she whispers. “Come with me. They can protect you, you don’t have to…”

He twists around so that she’s pressed hard into the wall and covers her mouth with his own until there’s no more talking, no more hoping.

No more lies.

They fall.

After, as he watches her brushing down her robes, smoothing her hair, removing any evidence of him, he pulls out the letter that arrived at breakfast. The flames that shoot from his wand startle her but all he can look at is the parchment burning on the floor and the Rosier family crest as it flares bright red before fading to black.

“Goodbye, Evan.”

Their eyes meet.

She leans down for a kiss, then turns and walks out of the classroom without another word. He watches her go, knowing that it is the last time. The words from his father’s letter drum throughout the empty classroom like an endless heartbeat, an endless threat.

Evan,

Did you not feel the need to reply to my last letter? I am not a man to be kept waiting, and neither is the Dark Lord. Remember who you are, my son. You are a Rosier and you will make this family proud, whatever is asked of you.

I'm also writing to inform you that your mother is ill. If you do not come home I doubt that she will survive the summer.

Something sharp twists in his chest like the slap of a palm across his cheek, or the crack of a cane across his fingers. The message is clear. The message is understood. He stretches out his left wrist and traces shapes into his skin. Skulls and snakes and her.

Marlene, Marlene, Marlene.

His fingers brush against his lips, remembering the imprint of her body pressed against him, the taste of her, the heat. Tomorrow he will leave Hogwarts and he will leave her. It’s not what he wants.

But he’s never felt so right.

Title: The Snowball EffectRating/Warnings: 3rd/5th Years – Character death (?)Prompt:

Write an Umbridge-centric drabble in which she is portrayed in a sympathetic light. It should be set during the time she was at Hogwarts during OOTP, and must be from the perspective of a canon character who isn’t Filch, a Slytherin, or a Death Eater. No flashbacks, please.

* * *

Bane could not help but shake his head at his captive. “It has been a long time, Dolores Umbridge. You should not be here.”

Nose upturned, Dolores retorted, “I hardly think you have the power to decide where I do and do not go, half-breed.”

He smiled at her vitriol. Though it had been years since their last encounter, Bane could see that she had bittered with age rather than mellowed. “You know the danger if the others realise you have returned to the forest. You will not be safe.”

Sneering, Dolores replied evenly, “That was a long time ago.”

“And Magorian’s memory is faultless,” Bane shot back coldly. “He will never forgive what you did to Arwen, not in a thousand moons.”

“I do not seek forgiveness from crude animals like your sort. Only a monster would do what that nag had done. Sub-human, barbaric filth!”

Though her words were full of bile, Bane couldn’t muster the sort of hate he should have for someone of her ilk. His own kind had contributed to it, and though his sympathy had been mellowed by time, he had not forgotten that mangled clump of fur and the human girl wailing over it. He had been but a colt then and far more forgiving.

It was not long before recognition dawned in Dolores’s eyes. “You! You took me out of the forest after that horrible beast killed . . .”

“It was by mistake.”

“And she laughed at me! At Snowball!”

Bane shook his head. “Your feline was unwise to venture into the forest, as were you to attack the chieftain’s mate. One does not need a clear view of Jupiter to see that.” Noticing that the volume of the conversation was not conducive to privacy, he said in a low voice. “You must leave before they are finished with Harry Potter. Magorian would love nothing more than vengeance, and he would do far worse than the childish hex of an immature wand-waver.” Looking around carefully, he hissed, “You must go now!”

Helping a wand-carrier was tantamount to treason for a centaur, to which his brother Firenze could attest, but Bane could not dispel the memory of a crying child from his mind. “I will tell them you overpowered me with your witchcraft. They will suspect nothing.” He mentally congratulated himself for playing along when his pack encountered the humans.

However, as soon as Dolores appeared ready to heed Bane’s sage advice, thundering hooves began to bear down on them, freezing the former in fear. Magorian trotted up to Bane and said, “You have done well. I have hoped to encounter this human for several cycles.”

“You remember her, then, my liege?”

Pointedly regarding Dolores, Magorian said, “Indeed I do. I shall take great pleasure in this.”

With that, Magorian raised his bow in the air and bellowed, “For Arwen!”

As his brethren closed in on Dolores, Bane vowed to never meddle in human affairs again. Pity was not a vice he could afford.

Title: Bravery SchoolRating/Warning: 3rd-5thWord count: 499Prompt:

Write a drabble set at Hogwarts during Harry’s Horcrux Hunt. It must be in the perspective of a student that was at no point in Dumbledore’s Army but was, at some point, a victim of one of the Carrows’ cruelty. Said cruelty does not have to occur during the drabble’s timeline, but it does need to be alluded to clearly. Just in the interest of interestingness, make this student a canon character (interview or book canon — your choice) no older than a sixth year.

A/N: According to the Lexicon, Laura Madley was a girl sorted into Hufflepuff during Harry's fourth year.

Laura pressed her back against the stone wall and let the cold seep into her. When she closed her eyes, she could see down the hall and around the corner: if she moved quickly, she’d be in the common room in less than twenty seconds. She knew this, but couldn’t get her feet to move.

She’d waited too long to leave the library. Snape’s curfew required all students to be in their dormitories by eight—the same time the library closed. She usually remembered to leave early, but tonight she’d been working with a friend and lost track of the time. The sight of Madam Pince approaching them with a panicked look on her face and an eye toward the clock had turned Laura’s heart to water. Could they possibly make it back without being seen?

With a bit of luck, she’d made it safely down several flights of stairs, hoping with every step that Lydia had got back to Gryffindor without incident. They both knew very well what would happen if caught by the wrong person. Laura had almost made it to the common room when the sound of footsteps drove her into a dark corner to hide. She’d heard about people being paralyzed by fear, but she’d always considered it a figure of speech, a metaphor for something that happened on the inside of a person.

She’d thought that until yesterday.

She’d thought it until the moment Alecto Carrow’s eyes had fallen upon hers in an early morning class. Now the pictures on the walls of her mind were those of the ceiling in the Dark Arts classroom and the black behind her own squeezed-shut eyes as she absorbed the Cruciatus Curse for the first time. She doubted she’d ever shake the sensation of fire under her skin and white pain shattering her nerves.

All at once, an invisible hand gripped Laura’s upper arm and a silencing charm was whispered against her face in the shadows. Her heart slammed against her chest as tried to jerk free.

“It’s okay. It’s me, Ernie.”

Her mind raced to make sense of it: Ernie Macmillan... an older housemate.

She let him pull her into the corridor, half-dragging her to the safety of the common room.

Hannah Abbot was waiting for them. “Susan?”

“No, it’s me,” he said.

Hannah flicked her wand and Ernie became visible. “I found her in the corridor. Where’s Susan?”

“Right here,” said a voice near the entrance. Another flick from Hannah’s wand, and Laura saw Susan Bones looking quite relieved. “You’re all right?” she asked Laura.

Hannah put an arm around Laura, causing her to cry. “We heard what happened yesterday.”

“I was scared. I heard something and hid, and then I just… couldn’t move,” Laura said helplessly. “I’m sorry… I’m not very brave, am I?”

The older students exchanged knowing looks as Ernie sighed and dropped heavily into a chair by the fire. “Give it a couple of months,” he said darkly. “You will be.”

Title: Back to the ShackRating/Warnings: 1st/2nd Years – None Prompt:

Write a drabble set on the last day at Hogwarts for the Marauders. Your drabble must feature all four Marauders but they mustn't mention Lily at all and it should end on a happy note.

* * *

Remus sat on his bed in Gryffindor Tower for the last time as he watched Peter, James, and Sirius quickly stuffing their belongings into their trunks, a task they had put off until the last minute. Remus had completed it the night before while they booby-trapped the first years’ dormitory. The sound of banshees echoing far and wide had been quite a wake-up call when the hapless, sleepy-eyed Lyle Arpin opened the door.

As the sounds of The Great Sock Hunt filled the room, Remus peered out the window over the trees and to a very familiar point between the school and Hogsmeade. It was hard to believe that he would never see it again. The Shrieking Shack had been a place of pain and anguish, but it had become so much more than that. In the past couple of years, it had developed into a hub of adventure and companionship that Remus had thought he would never find.

His thoughts engrossing, Remus was jolted when a hand clapped his shoulder. The accompanying chuckle behind him identified the hand as belonging to Sirius. “Merlin, Moony. A bit tetchy, are we?”

A denial was on his tongue, but Remus instead opted for a shrug. The tell-tale sounds of packing had only reminded him of a painful truth he had tried to put off for weeks: he was leaving the one place he could be himself without the fear of judgment. Everywhere he went, he felt eyes staring at him, condemning him for who and what he was, but when he was around his three best friends, his Marauder brethren, his life-altering affliction really did just seem like a ‘furry little problem’.

As if he had peered straight into Remus’s mind, James said, “You know, we have a couple hours before we have to be at Hogsmeade station. We could go one last time.” A warm feeling overtook Remus, and he could’ve floated all the way to the Shrieking Shack and just about did. Before he knew it, his hand was pressed up against the siding, its peeling paint a sign of character rather than flaw.

It was wretched and beautiful all at once, but nothing could compare to what Remus felt when Sirius, Peter, and James put their hands on the wall near his. He glanced over at Peter, who gave him a small smile and a nod. Then to Sirius, who waggled his brows, and then to James, who grinned and blew a shock of hair off his forehead.

Remus finally realised why he was there. It wasn’t the Shrieking Shack he would miss; it was losing those precious nights of fraternity to the real world. “Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” James mumbled, seemingly slipping into his own thoughts.

Peter made a noncommittal noise, but Sirius scoffed. “Bollocks. We’ll always have each other.”

Fervently hoping that Sirius was right, Remus mused, “You think?”

James snapped out of his reverie and said without hesitation, “Until the very end.”

Write a drabble in which Snape is paired with a female Hogwarts professor from the trio era. They don’t need to be in love, but there should be genuine positive feelings involved (not just a sexual relationship). A fanged Frisbee must have significance in the scene.

A/N: *Excerpt taken from Chapter One of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

There is a quiet comfort in his impassivity. When he shuts off his mind everything feels so clear and fragile and right. It’s a change from the dull haze he has lived in since the Dark Lord fell.

When he walks into Malfoy Manor to see a woman suspended above a long and ornate table, it is with a ruthless calm that he looks her in the eye and feels absolutely nothing.

---

The staff room is quiet when he enters, just a mere hiss from the fire in the corner, the occasional sound of a turning page. She is waiting for him with a book on her lap, alone.

He moves over to her and even though she doesn’t look up he can tell that she knows. There is a slight shift in her posture, the way her lips move upwards even though what she is reading looks heavy and dull. The way she doesn’t have to say anything at all. He sits down beside the fire and closes his eyes.

There are days when he cannot stand to be around anyone. There are days when he wishes everyone would disappear into nothing and then he could roam the earth alone with only his ghosts for company.

And there are days like this when he needs someone to sit with and just be. Charity Burbage is tolerable and for Severus that is enough.

“I have what you asked for,” she murmurs.

Charity holds out her hand and he looks down at the sweets lying in her upturned palm. Even the wrappers are the same as he remembers. He thinks of summer afternoons by the river, running hand in hand through the park, chains of twisted sweet wrappers braided through red hair.

Of sun and grass and Lily.

“I was visiting my sister and picked these up from the corner shop. I’m curious, though. When did you ever try Muggle sweets?”

“Thank you, Charity,” he replies, ignoring the question. “How much do I owe you?”

She smiles, shaking her head, and he hates her for it.

“Nothing. Consider it a gift. From friend to friend.”

Friend. Perhaps.

It is then that he notices the bandage on her other hand.

“Your fingers?”

“Ah,” she says with another smile. “I tried to confiscate one of those Fanged Frisbees from the Weasley twins.”

“Children,” he replies with a sneer. Charity chuckles and goes back to her book. Silence returns.

He unwraps a sweet and pops it into his mouth. The gold paper threads through his fingers until it’s twisted so tight that it rips in two. He reaches out towards the fire and lets go.

---

“Severus… please… please…”*

When the tear-stained face revolves around to face him once more, and as her lips open in one final plea, no one sees the slight flicker in his eyes, no one watches as the mask cracks if only for a second.

There is a flash of green, a hidden cry, and then the calm returns once more.

Title: Nine LettersRating/Warning: 3-5thWord count: 496Prompt:

Who knows what the professors get up to in the staff room? Write a Marauder-Era drabble in which Severus Snape is caught hiding in the staff room by someone other than Dumbledore or McGonagall. Why he was there and what he saw or overheard is up to you.

A/N:

Snape watched as Slughorn left the staff room wearing a befuddled expression that likely meant he’d forgotten something in the dungeons. Snape would not have much time; he quickly moved between the gargoyles that flanked the doorway and slipped into the empty room. The bag Slughorn always carried to class was propped on a chair near the window. After a quick glance toward the door, Snape tried the clasp. Fortunately, the Potions Master had not considered magical protection for his things: the bag opened easily.

Snape flipped through essays, a couple of vials and a flask, then swallowed his frustration and began to search the smaller compartments. He cursed Avery under his breath as he worked. Imbicile. Snape had thought nothing of it when Slughorn had confiscated the parchment upon which Avery had been doodling for most of class this morning. But then Avery’s face had drained of color and he’d met Snape’s eyes with a look of serious concern.

As it turned out, the idiot had been making a list—a list that Avery thought most professors (even Slughorn) would find at least curious, and at worst, incriminating. While Avery fretted and paced and wrung his hands, Snape considered the problem thoughtfully, remembering that Slughorn had dropped the parchment into his bag at the end of class.

“The solution is simple, is it not? We must retrieve it.”

In the staff room, his hand passed over a wrinkled bit of parchment in the bag as he heard shoes scrape the stone floor in the corridor. Snape hastily closed the latch and stepped back, pocketing his find in the hope that it was indeed the one he sought.

The door creaked open.

“Severus, my boy,” said Slughorn, looking disoriented. “What the devil are you doing in here?”

Snape worked his face into a relaxed expression. “Waiting for you, Professor. The door was left open, so I wandered inside. I apologize.”

Slughorn's eyes darted around as he ushered them both out in haste. “Students aren’t permitted in the staff room.”

Snape apologized again and immediately launched into a question about the merit of using runespoor eggs in potions, considering that runespoor was a protected species. The teacher bit hard on the bait, and the student knew he’d escaped scrutiny.

Half an hour later, Snape pulled the crumpled parchment from his robes in a deserted classroom: there were seven names. His chest tightened as he read down the list, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, the last one… nine letters that made his throat ache…

Avery hadn’t told him what it was about, but now he would have to know. He didn’t care about the others, but that last name…

He shoved it into his robes, but could still see the handwriting in his mind: Lily Evans. He blew out a long breath, seeing the eyes that belonged to the name… allowing himself a moment of indulgence.